


we're all thirsty, merlin

by pinlilli



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bladder Control, Canon Era, Desperation, M/M, Omorashi, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 03:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14228595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinlilli/pseuds/pinlilli
Summary: “We’re already late, Merlin. You have no one to blame but yourself.”“Come on, Arthur. I’ll be fast. It’ll take all but a minute.”“I said no.” He sees Merlin’s mouth part in protest and says, “Don’t be such a baby, Merlin. It can’t be that bad.”Merlin laughs, strangled. Arthur notices that there’s a slight flush to his skin. “It really is.”





	we're all thirsty, merlin

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the kinksofcamelot prompt on LJ:
> 
> Arthur likes the sound of Merlin relieving himself after holding it a while. Merlin sighs, groans, and tilts his head back. Arthur thinks it might be one of the sexiest things he's ever seen/heard.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Arthur sees Merlin squirming in his saddle.

“What’s wrong with you, Merlin?” he asks. “Is your backside sore already?”

“No, not sore,” he denies, but his shifting around says otherwise.

“What is it then? Spit it out,” Arthur said.

“I’ve got to take a piss,” Merlin says.

“Well, you should have gone before we left,” Arthur says, turning his eyes back to the dirt road. 

“I wanted to, but _someone_ demanded that I mend their tunic and pack the saddlebags.”

“And _someone_ got us lost,” Arthur shoots back. Merlin can be downright aggravating at times. What kind of servant complains about carrying out their duties? “We’re already late, Merlin. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Come on, Arthur. I’ll be fast. It’ll take all but a minute.”

“I said no.” He sees Merlin’s mouth part in protest and says, “Don’t be such a baby, Merlin. It can’t be that bad.”

Merlin laughs, strangled. Arthur notices that there’s a slight flush to his skin. “It really is.” 

“Bad enough that you’ll wet yourself like a child?” Arthur asks. “Go, then, if you’re so desperate.”

Merlin glares at him like he is a complete and utter bastard. He exhales heavily and straightens his shoulders. Tries a different approach this time, turning wide, beseeching eyes on Arthur. “Come on, please?”

He could tell Merlin to shut up, and Merlin wouldn’t, of course. He’d whine and complain all the way to Mercia, but he’d have no choice to endure it. Would have no choice but to clutch at his stomach as the horse jostled him about. After all, Arthur is the crown prince and he is but a manservant. He _owns_ Merlin; he gets to decide whether or not Merlin is allowed relief.

A stretch of rough terrain is coming up ahead. He thinks about how Merlin wouldn’t be able to press his thighs together to keep himself from spilling in his trousers, how a particularly rough bump could be enough to make him leak a little. Maybe, if Arthur rode close enough to him, he would be able to hear the exact moment it happened, the embarrassed noise that Merlin would make when his smallclothes grew warm. He thinks about how Merlin wouldn’t be able to control himself then, having tasted the slightest relief, and he would let himself go, hot piss running down his legs. And then he’d sag in his saddle, look to Arthur with dazed, half-lidded eyes, cheeks coloured with shame.

Arthur yanks on his reigns, startling a snort out of his horse. He’s panting and throbbing in his trousers. The breeze is cool on his face.

“Arthur—”

“Go,” he grits out, unable to meet Merlin’s eyes.

“Oh, thank lord,” Merlin breathes. He slithers off his horse and stumbles into the undergrowth. 

Arthur hears it almost immediately: a low groan, followed by a noisy stream of piss that splatters against forest litter. Cursing softly, Arthur closes his eyes and squeezes his prick through his trousers.

* * *

Arthur doesn’t bring it up. Doesn’t know how. He can’t even explain his fascination to himself. What is he supposed to say? That the sound the Merlin sighing as he relieves himself is the most erotic sound he has ever heard? That he strains his ears to hear Merlin urinate when they set up camp after a long day of riding?

Sometimes he wonders if Merlin has already figured him out. There are times when their eyes meet while Merlin is drinking from his waterskin, or when Merlin emerges from behind a tree, fastening his trousers and wearing a small, satisfied smile. Merlin is hopelessly clumsy when it comes to his servant duties, but he has always been perceptive of Arthur’s needs. 

* * *

The castle feasts tonight, welcoming Princess Ellyn as a potential match for Arthur. She is as beautiful as Uther claimed, but Arthur finds her lacking when compared to Merlin’s flappy ears and round eyes and the perpetual moue of his lips. He has long since stopped giving her any attention, much more distracted by his manservant’s strange behaviour.

Merlin is actually attempting to be an exemplary servant tonight. He doesn’t spill a drop of wine, doesn’t knock over saucières with his elbows when he reaches across the table. He doesn’t whisper jokes about some nobleman or another into Arthur’s ears that make Arthur snort into his cup.

He is, however, oddly thirsty tonight.

Arthur can’t help his eyes from drifting over Princess Ellyn’s shoulder in Merlin’s direction. Each time, he finds a cup in Merlin’s hand. It could be because of the heavy-handed salting of the venison. Or it could be the weather. The sun is making its descent into the horizon, but it is a rather hot, muggy night to be cooped up with dozens of other bodies; Arthur itches with sweat under his fine tunic. 

He doesn’t think it’s because of either of those reasons, though. Merlin’s eyes find his, and he raises his goblet in Arthur’s direction. His lips are curled up in a smirk.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Arthur hisses when Merlin comes within earshot. 

“I’m refilling your wine, sire,” Merlin says. Smiles at him, innocent and sweet.

Arthur’s stomach does one, slow roll.

Merlin knows.

The feast runs late into the night. Arthur’s knee bounces beneath the table, a childhood habit he thought his father had beaten out of him. It would be acceptable for him to retire to his chambers; he has entertained Princess Ellyn long enough. But the wine is still flowing, and more importantly, Merlin is still downing cup after cup of water.

Merlin isn’t even trying to act coy anymore. Brazen, he holds Arthur’s gaze as he tips his goblet back. His pale throat bobs as he swallows.

Arthur finds his own mouth parched and gulps down his wine like water. Merlin moves in to fill his drink, eyes downcast. Before he can dart away, Arthur says, “Merlin, wait.”

“Yes, my lord?”

Arthur nudges the goblet toward Merlin. The liquid swirls, catching on the rim of it before settling. “You haven’t tasted the wine yet, have you?” 

Merlin shakes his head no.

“Give it a try. It’s Camelot’s finest.”

Merlin gapes at him for a split second before regaining himself. “I couldn’t, my lord,” he demurs, hand going to his belly, and all Arthur hears is that he _can’t_ , that he’s about to burst, right where everyone could see his trousers grow wet and stick to his legs and smell the urine on him.

Arthur swallows. “I insist, Merlin.”

Obediently, Merlin takes the goblet, their fingers brushing as he does so. He doesn’t empty the cup with a gratified sigh and a smack of the lips as most people do; he finishes with a quiet moan that goes straight to Arthur’s cock. Arthur finds that after all, he is but a man, and weak to his desires.

He mutters an apology to Princess Ellyn and excuses himself, sweeping out of dining hall. Behind him, he hears Merlin’s distinct footfalls.

The walk to his chambers is a short one, but he finds that it’s just enough time to drive himself mad. He thinks about Merlin hurrying after him, all that liquid sloshing around inside him, how every step must intensify the urge to piss. He wonders if Merlin has already wet himself.

He doesn’t dare turn around, afraid of what he might do.

As soon as the doors close behind them, Arthur crowds Merlin against them and takes his lips in a hungry kiss. “You little minx. You’ve been teasing me all night,” he growls, wedging a hand between their bodies to press down on Merlin’s stomach.

Merlin pulls away with a gasp, hips jolting. His hand flies to grip between his legs, as though he could physically prevent himself from making a mess. “Arthur, I’ve got to—” 

Arthur takes a step back. “Is it that bad?”

“Yes, you prat. I’ve been holding it for hours,” Merlin says. He walks, stiff-spined, to the bed and bends to pull out the chamberpot from under it.

He steps out of his trousers, carefully folding and setting them aside before shuffling up to the chamberpot. He glances over his shoulder at Arthur, hesitating. Candlelight strikes his prominent cheekbones. Arthur wishes that the lighting were better so he could see the deep flush that no doubt suffuses Merlin’s cheeks.

Merlin pulls his lower lip between his teeth. Then, he squats over the chamberpot, soft prick hanging between his legs. Arthur kneels behind him, eyes tracking over his face.

“You don’t have to,” Arthur says quietly, but he hopes that Merlin does; God, does he hope. Already he’s fattening up in his smallclothes from the anticipation.

Merlin huffs. “You could never make me do anything I didn’t want to.” He bunches up his tunic in a fist to keep it out of the way, and then he grasps the base of his cock.

Arthur sneaks a hand around Merlin’s middle. He’s so worryingly thin that any bloating is noticeable. Just like a full waterskin, Arthur thinks. He rubs his thumb over it and then presses down a few inches below his belly button. Merlin whimpers.

“I really have to go, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, voice strained. 

Arthur’s hand creeps lower to join their fingers together. “Come on, then. Let go,” he urges. 

And Merlin _does_. His entire body goes lax and— 

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin groans, long and languid, as the first stream of piss noisily hits the chamberpot. His head lolls back onto Arthur’s shoulder, revealing the column of his neck. Arthur latches onto the exposed skin, mouthing there. He peers over Merlin’s shoulder, watching the pot fill. He groans, as though he were the one finally being granted relief after hours of denial. With his free hand, he pushes lightly on Merlin’s lower belly and shudders at the ragged gasp that it elicits. He swears he can feel the swell of it deflate as Merlin empties his bladder.

Merlin keeps pissing and pissing. There’s just so much of it, hours of accumulated liquid passing through him in a forceful stream. Arthur worries a little that the chamberpot won’t be able to hold it all, that it’ll overflow and make a mess of the floor; yet another thing for Merlin to clean. The thought of that makes Arthur’s cheeks grow hotter, if it were possible, and he buries his face into Merlin’s neck where he fights to regain his breath. His heart is pounding somewhere up in his head, and his cock is harder than it has ever been in his life.

The initial jet of urine dies down to a trickle. Just when Arthur thinks Merlin has nothing left, there’s one last gush of piss to hit the pot. Arthur gives Merlin’s cock a shake to rid him of any last drops. With a whimper, Merlin sags and Arthur eases both of them down to seated. There isn’t a doubt in his mind that Merlin can feel his erection pressing against his backside; he’s as hard as a rock.

Arthur shushes him gently. “I’ve got you, Merlin,” he says, pressing frantic kisses to Merlin’s temple. “So good. Gods, Merlin, you were—I didn’t think… “ He fails spectacularly at forming words. Didn’t think Merlin, that perfect creature, would indulge him. 

“If I knew this was all it took for you to be grateful, I would have done this sooner,” Merlin laughs, breathless, and pushes his arse back into Arthur’s pelvis. “Go on, now. Unlike you, I don’t make someone wait hours for release.”

“Prat,” Arthur says, nipping at Merlin’s earlobe. With a shaking hand—the same hand he held Merlin’s prick with, now damp with piss—he unlaces the front of his trousers and fishes his cock out. He rests his forehead on the nape of Merlin’s neck and begins to stroke himself. Swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading his precome down his length. He’s leaking so much wet that his hand glides smoothly up and down.

His orgasm hits him by surprise. With a low, shocked moan, he spurts across Merlin’s low back. It’s over embarrassingly fast, but he can’t bring himself to care. Merlin doesn’t seem to mind, turning around in his grasp to capture his lips in a clumsy kiss.


End file.
